Good things wither when they grace my hands

It all crumbles into fine soft sands;
As the breeze thickens and sweeps me past
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

I try to thread careful through time’s vast lands,
Yet as much as I count each blessing I’m cast,
It all crumbles into fine soft sands.

The voices of guides and beloved friends
Ring loudly and clearly before fading fast;
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

Though I wish I could weave each of these strands
Into a colourful fabric of life I’ve passed,
It all crumbles into fine soft sands.

And when I tire of the tides’ demands
I look behind to an horizon hazed, not glassed;
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

Far enough, when the storm lands,
the dust will find me to settle at last.
It all crumbles into fine soft sands;
Good things wither when they grace my hands.